


despise the thinker

by yonderdarling



Series: Doctor/Missy Oneshots [7]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Piano Sex, Talking, The vault, Who's in the Vault, will be Jossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 23:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10886898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderdarling/pseuds/yonderdarling
Summary: "Kissing starts off on the piano bench, moves to the keys, and when the music stand snaps off the key cover, kissing on top of the piano turns into sex on the floor under the piano." Who, and what the Doctor is doing in the Vault.





	despise the thinker

**Author's Note:**

> Will be jossed by next episode, and completely nonsensical by the time we actually find out what's the Vault. Thanks to Chris for looking this over for me.

Kissing starts off on the piano bench, moves to the keys, and when the music stand snaps off the key cover, kissing on _top_ of the piano turns into sex on the floor _under_ the piano.

Missy reaches up and drags her finger along the bottom of the piano with a squeaking noise. She presses her damp palm to their dim reflections in the black wood. Trails her fingernails across her own reflected face.

"Is this Styganixan ebony maple?" she asks, her voice hoarse. She runs her hand across the reflection of their faces, tapping her nails against the mottled wood. "Or is this the elm?"

"The maple."

Missy rolls onto her side, rests her cheek against his shoulder. She twists, presses open-mouthed kisses to the top of his arm. The Doctor blows some of her messy hair out of his face, looks back up at the bottom of the piano. Blows on her hair again.

"In hindsight, I feel like a keyboard would have done," the Doctor says, and Missy blows a raspberry, then bites him. He winces. "What's that about?"

"Beautiful music should be played on a fine instrument," says Missy. "Art on art on art, my dear. I'm just amazed you got it through the TARDIS doors and it's still in tune."

"Sideways with a gravity loop," the Doctor says. "That said, I got it about seven hundred years ago off the Princess of Hirsheenaq, there's a knack to the tuning, but you'll get it eventually."

Missy tenses against him. "I've been here for fifty years with nothing else to do, Doctor. Believe me, I'll get the knack."

"Are you expecting me to apologise for this?"

"I'm expecting you to give me the tools and parts to fix the music stand and not complain when I make a few improvements on the pedals."

The Doctor ruminates on that for a moment, trailing his fingers down Missy's bare, muscled arm. She settles back in, leaning against him. He traces her collarbone with his thumb.

"I'm not giving you the sonic."

"You lean on the sonic. You need to get back into working with your hands, old man."

"I work with my hands."

Missy pops her lips.

"Have you - have you been working out?" the Doctor asks, feeling her bicep properly.

"Prison tradition," she says. "I've got some shivs too, made out of those Daily Mirrors you gave me to read. One has a poison dipped tip."

"They weren't to read," says the Doctor, deciding to deal with that later. "They were for - " He reaches up and puts his hand over his own reflection, not wanting to look at himself. "They were the wrappers for the fish and chips I brought you, last month. Have you run out of books?"

"Course I've run out of books. Why do you think I seduced you with nothing but motifs on Shostakovich?"

"I thought," begins the Doctor, and he sighs.

He rolls onto his side to face Missy properly. She faces him too, pillowing her head on one of her long, pale arms. Missy smiles softly, pokes him in the nose.

"Shostakovich could be quite - exploratory in his time signatures," he says. "I thought - "

"I didn't want to count in fours? Doctor, I have a _little_ more mental stability than that."

"When we first put you in here, you were screaming like a mad thing. Honestly, I've seen more stability in a crockery store on the planet of the earthquakes."

Missy narrows her bright eyes and the Doctor realises his mistake.

"Before - before, they worked out the architectural and engineering kinks," he says. "You know, the great shattering of Gamma-Quad Oh-7."

Missy tuts, rolls out from under the piano and collects the Doctor's t-shirt, throws it on. The Doctor stays under the piano, staring up and through his own reflection. The abused piano bench squeaks as Missy sits on it, crossing her legs. There's a few tapped notes of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, before she launches into a Chopin waltz. It fills the Doctor's ears, and he closes his eyes and lets the music fill him.

"Nardole will be looking for you," Missy says, the sibilant Gallifreyan slipping under the piano's music.

"He'll figure out where I am."

"What about your new human?"

"She doesn't know what's in here. Who's, in here. Why, you're in here."

Missy keeps playing, tutting vaguely. "I forget that myself sometimes. Funny how the mind turns in on itself when there is so _little_ to stimulate it."

The Doctor turns again, staring at Missy's bare feet, her toenails painted a glossy, bright red. "You can do my nails," he says vaguely, reaching out and cupping her ankle. "If you want." He traces his index finger along the arch of her foot. Missy misses a note and twitches, quickly drawing her feet back under the bench. "You're so ticklish this time."

"Big talk for a being who once dropped to his knees when I touched his neck," says Missy. Still playing, she stretches one bare leg out, presses her foot against his chest, and the Doctor rubs her bruised shin. "Any requests?"

"Stravinsky?" Wrong, he realises, but can't take it back.

"Nyet," says Missy. "Could never stand him. Odious man. Stravinsky the composer I worship."

"Stravinsky the thinker I despise," finishes the Doctor. "Missy. Even if I could, I wouldn't take you out of here."

"The thinker I despise," Missy repeats, her Russian and her accent perfect even out of the TARDIS's translation matrix range. She stops playing, rests her hands on her thighs. The Doctor watches her curling her fingers around the hem of his shirt. "The thinker," she presses a key. "I," another few notes, up in a minor scale. "Despise." She runs up the rest of the keys.

There's a moments pause, and the tension builds. Then, thankfully, somehow, there's a thump on the Vault door, mere feet away. The Doctor jumps and Missy tenses.

"Doctor?" calls Nardole. "Hello? You in there?"

Missy spins on the piano bench, which again groans and squeaks, uses her foot to pull one of the Doctor's discarded Doc Martens over within her arm's reach. She picks the boot up, hefts it thoughtfully, and flings it at the door. It connects with a loud bang, and they both hear Nardole make a surprised sound.

"I'll take that as a hint," they hear him saying. "I'll make myself scarce."

Missy keeps pressing her foot against his chest. The Doctor breathes in, opens his mouth. She presses down harder, curling her toes.

"He's not gone," Missy says quietly, still in Russian, before the Doctor can speak. "He _lingers_ , that one. Curiously nondescript for the universe's fattest, palest, shiniest robot. What _is it_ with you and crap robots?"

He stays under the piano, keeps rubbing her leg, silent. One minute passes, then two. Missy relaxes, clicks her tongue, plays a quick minor scale and launches into a military march.

"I can play in four-four, you idiot," she says. "See? Put your pants back on, you're distracting me."

"I didn't know I was so alluring."

"No, it's getting cold and your dick's looking kind of sad," says Missy. "Making me think of this Dalek corpse I once found on the shores of Woman Wept. Dead sexy."

The Doctor looks down. "Oh. Right. Right. It's going to take me a while to get that image out of my head."

He slides out from under the piano, narrowly missing cracking his head on the wood. The Doctor shuffles around, finding his boxers, his trousers. He slips those back on and goes into Missy's small bedroom, scattered with piles of books and notes. He finds her dressing-gown - fluffy and purple with embroidered balloons on the front, he got that from Primark for her as a gag gift - and totes that back out to the main area, the front of the Vault.

Missy keeps playing as he peels his t-shirt off her, lifting one of her arms, then the other. He wraps the dressing gown around her shoulders and puts his shirt back on, enjoying the lingering smell of her perfume. He stands behind Missy, pulls her messed hair out of her collar, runs his fingers through it.

"Good," says Missy.

"You need to wash your hair," says the Doctor.

"Hush, hush now," Missy says. "That tiny bathroom you allowed me to build is so miserable I can barely stand being in it."

"Missy, it's twenty square feet."

"And the hot water always runs out."

"That's because you put in a spa bath."

The Doctor arranges her hair over one of her shoulders, massages the back of her neck. Missy breathes out slowly, lets her shoulders drop, slides her hands back onto her thighs. She leans back, resting her head against his stomach.

And then, there's another banging on the Vault door. Missy tenses under his hands, and then sighs.

"You should go," she says. "You've got that damn planet to protect."

"And all those damn students."

"And your special, special human. If she even is."

The Doctor doesn't move. He cups the back of her neck, runs his thumb along her hairline.

"Tell me about the fish under the Thames, next time. You never finished that one," Missy says. "Kids seem to be getting eaten by things when you're around a lot, lately. I wonder if that's relevant."

"Doctor!" Nardole calls through the door. "UNIT's here for you!"

The Doctor brushes his hand along Missy's hair again. "I'll bring a toolbox along, in a couple of days and we'll fix the music stand. You've memorised most of the stuff you like anyway."

Missy spins on the bench and is kneeling on the seat so fast his fingers tangle in her hair. The Doctor leans down and kisses her gently on the cheek, brushing his free hand down her neck.

"Soon," says Missy. "Soon, soon, soon."

The Doctor disentangles his fingers, cups her face and kisses her forehead softly. Missy hums.

"Thank you," he says. "I'll bring dinner in a couple of days. What do you feel like?"

"Sushi, if you wouldn't mind," Missy says.

"Sounds excellent. Where are my socks?"

"My socks now," says Missy.

"I'm not meeting Kate and her cronies barefoot."

Missy settles back down, straddling the piano bench. "Not my circus, not my monkeys, as they say."

The Doctor fetches his boots, puts them on with a grimace. "Jacket?"

"You didn't wear it in, but your jumper is on the kitchen table."

"Yes," says the Doctor, heading into the kitchen area.

"Put the cups in the dishwasher while you're there," says Missy.

The Doctor shoves his jumper over his head, shoves the cups into the rack. The piano bench squeaks as Missy moves again, and he listens to her tinkling away at Für Elise.

The Doctor pauses behind her again. "I'll be back soon."

"He'll be back soon," Missy mutters, playing away. "Go on, your humans need you. They always do." She hits a wrong note, swears. "Don't forget to lock the door."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.


End file.
